


The Taste of Us

by Violetwylde



Series: Ficlet Collection [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come Eating, Felching, M/M, Rimming, Snowballing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: Inspired by the prompt: “Hi please consider John eating his own cum out of Sherlock’s ass before kissing him/feeding it back to him with his tongue and fingers.”





	The Taste of Us

With feral cobalt eyes and the hungry flash of a smile, John flipped me onto my stomach. He leaned over me—one hand on my hip, the other on my shoulder—and nuzzled into my curls. Not gentle, but base; not sweet, but scenting. His lips brushed against my ear as he growled for me to hold on to the headboard.

I trembled, wrapped my fingers around the vertical slats of cherry wood, and held on for dear life.

I thought the instruction was made out of concern—to keep the rhythmic _thud-thud-thud_ against the wall from waking up our magnanimous landlady. And maybe it was, after a fashion, but he clearly had ulterior motives.

Because keeping my hands curled around the headboard meant that my cock hung heavy and untouched. It meant that all I could do was arch my back like a bitch in heat—dribbling precome and crying out _yes, harder, faster_. It meant howling into the pillows as he hammered my prostate. It meant being at his mercy.

When the ecstatic litany of _‘fuck yes’_ and _‘just like that’_ and _‘christ your arse’_ devolved into grunts of pure pleasure, when his grip on my hips shifted and tightened, when the fat head of his cock pulled back to piston, rapid and shallow, in my arse.

When   
he   
finally  
came.

I felt him pulse—three, four, five times. Felt the blossom of heat as he filled me up. Felt the throb and ache between my legs grow even stronger.

But then, I felt him slip out. Felt his hands slide up the backs of my thighs. Felt his hot breath against my wet and well-used hole. I shivered, clenched and released—felt a trickle of his spunk slip from my body.

He made a sound, like a punch to the solar plexus, and set his tongue to the dribble. He lapped like it was a sacrament—a sin to waste even one drop.

It felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room. I couldn’t breathe through this vacuum of depravity. So I did the only thing a person could do in such a situation. I bore down.

There was a wet squelch—a sound filthy enough to make me bury my face and sob out in embarrassment—followed by the warm rush of semen. And John Watson—retired army captain and licensed GP—spread my cheeks apart and ate my arse like a man starved.

There was moaning and slurping and a high pitched whine that turned out to be my own voice caught in my throat. His lips were soft, but his stubble scratched. And nothing in my life had felt as wicked or as wonderful as the flick and probe of his tongue inside my leaking hole.

And still, my cock remained neglected.

I was harder than I’d ever been, teetering on the edge of orgasm—but my body refused to let me fall. Just a few strokes. That was all I’d need.

So I pulled my head up from where I’d been shouting into the mattress, and begged. Pleaded and whimpered without shame, to _please let me come_.

And when he pulled back and rasped for me to turn over, I thought I might cry.

I rolled on to my back and my breath caught at the sight of John as he knealt above me. He was flushed from exertion—skin rosy pink with a thin sheen of sweat darkening his hairline and limning his shoulders and chest. His eyes smouldered and his smirking mouth glistened with come.

He descended upon me like a wild man, licking deep into my mouth and sharing the musky, bitter taste of his semen and my own arse. I moaned into the kiss, wrapped my arms around him, and clawed at his back. I sucked the flavor of our fucking from his tongue and rocked up in desperation. Friction would be enough. The plane of his belly made slick by my own precome and the taste of rutting in my mouth. It would be more than enough.

So when I felt his small, warm hand wrap around my cock, I nearly wept. Because he knew just the right pressure. He knew how to twist his fist. How to pull my foreskin up over the tip and pinch and roll. He knew exactly how to rub his thumb into the delta of my frenulum and make me see God.

And after the cursing had ceased and the starbursts cleared from my eyes, I felt the press of his fingers between my lips and tasted the fresh bloom of brine on my tongue. My own come this time.

John swiped through the mess on my stomach, gathering another milky smear, and brought it to his own mouth. His eyes fluttered closed as he savored the bitter tang. And when he kissed me again I could still feel the slick coat of it on his tongue.

And my heart ached and my cock twitched and I knew we had much more to discover.


End file.
